


A Match Made In Rainbow Falls

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: A Little Bit Of Background Period-Typical Homophobia, Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, And Also Shakespeare, Extreme Underage, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Murder, No beta we die like mne, Precocious Behavior, Quadrant Confusion, TFiEsta2020, Unreliable Narrator, references to Lolita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In 2001, in Rainbow Falls, New York, five-year old Rose Lalonde enters her first and only year of public school, and twelve-sweep-old Kanaya Maryam finds something entirely unexpected.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Anonymous, TFiEsta 2020





	A Match Made In Rainbow Falls

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TFiEsta](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TFiEsta) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Teacher/Student AU: Character A and Character B meet on the first day of kindergarten and it's love at first sight.
> 
>  **Author's Note**  
>  this is... probably wildly OOC... *sweats*

「 september 」

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you have been aware of the inherent flaws and idiosyncrasies of serendipity for most of your life, but never so much before as now.

You have been selected, alongside a dozen other trolls, for full-time residence and partial integration into human society, in a gesture of goodwill on the part of your nascent Empress and her new "INTERGALACTIC P-EACE" efforts (replacing the regrettably more popular "krill and enslave" policy of her predecessor.) Due to your areas of expertise from your relatively short time in the brooding caverns, you have been assigned a probational job at a human schoolfeeding institution, in which you are to interact with and instruct young humans between the ages of two and six sweeps as an assistant teacheradicator.

The class you were assigned to consisted of the youngest age bracket this particular institution works with. You were considered the most "forgiving" and "maternal" of your group, and thus most qualified to handle this demographic. It appears the most valued traits in human teacheradicators are a mixture of technical competency and pale, vaguely lusus-like behaviors -- the former, you take pride in, and the latter has earned you the title of conciliatory village two-wheel device from multiple social circles.

The feeling surprises you nonetheless, not least of all because one wriggler, in particular, elicits something far more colorful.

Rose Lalonde is very small. The top of her head reaches barely past your mid-thigh. Her short blonde hair frames curious violet eyes and makes her cheeks even rounder and younger than they are, and she speaks with a faint whistly lisp you were informed is common at her stage of development, due to the fascinating gradual replacement of her first set of teeth.

She is intelligent for her age, and well-spoken, and the sound of her alien laughter behind your back stirs your bloodpusher in the most delightful ways. You faltered, almost taken aback, when you first saw her filing in with the other children, for a human like her belongs in a class all her own.

Rose blushes when she calls you "Ms. Maryam", and you giggle behind your hand, a little giddy, when she offers you up a poem after class. The verse is somewhat disorganized, in places, and you can connect the dots between the ostentatious word choice and the synonym reference manual stuffed awkwardly into her desk, but she is so proud of herself. Her cleverness and stubborn determination remind you of one Vriska Serket, your adolescent crush of three sweeps pining, but Rose is far better than that. Where Vriska had nothing but barbs and venom to offer past the passion, Rose is teasingly, innocently kind, and your pulse skips and stutters at her smile.

You reread the poem again, after your work is done for the day. The references are quite mature, according to the human you ask; your "mystery poet" you describe to her is undoubtedly well-read. One reference stops you short: a mention of romance, alluding to an ancient poet known for her love of women. (The aide, Miss Claire, looks at you very strangely and pointedly after that, and swears you to secrecy on her knowledge of the matter shortly after, though you cannot entirely guess why.)

While it was within your understanding the pale overtures were a standard, if disturbing, aspect of adult-juvenile relations among humans, a flushed message is apparently still quite unexpected. When you hesitantly admit that the poet is one of the institution's own students, albeit without disclosing names, Miss Claire laughs.

"Sometimes kids get crushes on adults they like," she tells you, smiling. "Happens all the time. I mean, I had a phase like that in middle school. Anyway, it's cute, if a little weird, but don't worry about it. Your secret admirer will probably find someone their own age to get all doe-eyed over soon enough."

Ah. So you are merely a precocious infatuation for young Rose, then. This logic does not sate your disappointment, but you resolve to follow the advice of your human peers and cultural consultants nonetheless. Pale behaviors toward students are appropriate and expected; flushed inclinations are not.

***

「 october 」

The poems do not cease. You begin to collect them in a filing cabinet drawer in your tiny provisional office cubicle, tucked under a ream of blank printer paper.

Late in the evenings, before leaving for the communal recuperacoon barracks with your fellow trolls, you re-read your favorites under the pretense of grading schoolwork. It is a very small lie, barely even necessary, but nobody needs to know.

***

Rose prefers to remain in the classroom during her grade's designated recess period. While the human teacher urges her to join her peers outdoors for physical exercise, you've learned that her favorite activity is to read books stealthily purloined from the upper-grade shelves of the school knowledge vault.

According to Miss Claire, a human her age would be considered insufficiently mature for such literature, though your own perusal reveals not much you would find objectionable. There is little here that you didn't read at around that age yourself, after all. (Your lusus could not stop you, as she could not read.) Humans, you have observed, place highly restrictive standards on the desires and interests of their young.

***

"Ms. Maryam?" Rose asks you one afternoon, after her classmates have fled to celebrate the end of their daily schoolfeed. "I didn't write this poem, but it made me think of you."

She hands you a page, digitally copied from a book, printed in stark, primitive black and white that nearly obscures the title at the top margin, and page number at the bottom. You take it carefully, in both hands.

You... you are not quite sure this is a love poem.

"Hmm," you say, trepidation damming any further comment. "I am afraid I do not understand the foreign passage here."

Rose shakes her head. "That's fine. It's in French."

"And the ending is quite a solemn one," you continue. "'The rest is rust and stardust'? It's a lovely picture, I suppose, although I admit my understanding of it lacking. Where did you find this poem?"

"From a library book," she says, shifting on her feet. She smiles shyly at you. "I hope you like it."

She turns around and darts out of the classroom without another word, leaving you with a strange copied poem in your hands, and a fresh new round of questions. With some further thought, you squint at what appears to be the book title along the top of the page, in small print marred by humans' inferior copying technology, and then very nearly drop the paper.

It appears to be from human Trollita.

You were not aware humans had a Trollita. With their social acceptance of pale adult-juvenile relations, you had honestly forgotten at times that other quadrants might still carry more comparable stigma. Human adults do not typically menace or kill juveniles on sight, so the division still strikes you as a touch surprising in general, but you suppose you can accept the concept. (It is also possible you are entirely mistaken as to the nature and themes of human Trollita.)

It seems this will require further research.

***

It seems that as a society with mixed-age populations and unrestricted pale contact between adults and juveniles, a few quadrant-flipping relationships are to be expected.

The human equivalent of Trollita differs notably from your more familiar storyline from schoolfeeding on adult-juvenile relations. Rather than covering the secret whirlwind romance of a lowblood girl of six sweeps and a blue-blooded planetary vanguardian, who smuggles the juvenile aboard an orbital defense station after the abrupt, carefully-planned death of her lusus at the blue-blood's own hands, human Trollita appears to be a memoir of a strange man who insinuates himself into the lusus-pale quadrant of a juvenile (described as a "nymphet", presumably an outdated term for a human's nymph-like adolescent phase), and makes repeated underhand (but accepted?) advances to turn the arrangement flushed.

The ending proves tragic, with the juvenile abandoning the man, and eventually dying in the act of reproduction. This final detail confuses you, as you had been assured humans did not have drones, but you have begun to find humans are less safe and peaceful creatures than they would depict themselves as after all. Indeed, aspects of their history and life-cycle have at times struck you as positively trollish.

In a fit of inspired temptation, you write a poem of your own. You leave it in Rose's cubby, discreetly, where anyone could have placed it. She's a smart girl. You trust her to guess the author, and to not breathe a word of it aloud.

***

「 november 」

In the winter, Rose stays in frequently, even as her classmates continue to trudge out into the snow, day after day, weary-faced little soldiers in the biting cold. She buries her face in books as if they're keeping her warm, always quietly busy in her own mind.

It is one such afternoon, a few days shy of the institution's seasonal intermission. The primary human teacher has left for her periodical carcinogen-inhalant outing, and Rose comes up to your small, tertiary desk near the front of the room, bearing a poorly-hidden smile and mischief in her eyes.

"Is there something you'd like to ask?" You set down your pen, to properly signal your attention. She's trained you well. You know she stands closer and smiles more when you put down your work to listen.

Rose's cheeks flush faintly. Perhaps she is cold. The building's heating system has been faulty as of late. "I wanted to give you something, Ms. Maryam."

"Oh?" You quirk an eyebrow.

She nods once, fidgeting adorably with the hem of her shirt, and takes a quick breath in and out. And then, she leans in on tip-toes and kisses you on the cheek.

You sit in place, stunned.

Her lips are so very warm and soft against your skin; like all humans, she runs as hot as a burgundy. Her breath lingers on your face for a moment before she wobbles, losing her balance ever so slightly, and drops back to stare at your with shining eyes.

You want to deny the feelings in your bloodpusher, but you cannot. Your affections for this human girl far surpass any platonic alien paleness. You cannot even call your feelings for her _pale_ with any honesty, not when the very core of your being sings flushed passions for the fragile joy in her tiny, pale face, and you want so badly to kiss her again.

Rose stands very still, like she expects you to recoil or strike. She must have worked up a great deal of courage for this advance.

"Miss Lalonde," you begin, and you find yourself all but breathless.

She frowns, ever so slightly.

"Rose," you correct yourself, and you offer a warm smile. Her face brightens likes the sun escaping the clouds. "I... thank you." You consider your options. You have been studying this planet's literature in your spare time, particularly when her interest and allusions direct you. "For your trespass, sweetly urged."

The phrase is from a love-tragedy of old human theater. You have come to the conclusion that most of this species' romance ends in tragedy, and adjusted your priorities accordingly in recent weeks. What a revolution your knowledge has undergone, since Rose first tempted you into a more thorough perusal of human literature.

Rose smiles, mind working behind those alien, red-blooded violet eyes. Her eyes alight when she recognizes your reply, but then she tilts her head. "My mother said girls kissing isn't a sin, even if society thinks so."

"I would hardly think it is," you tell her, earnest and a touch confused. You recall, after thinking a moment, an advisory from your briefing about humans and their odd romantic hangups and discrimination.

Many of their societies disapprove concupiscent relations between same-gendered partners. Something to do with their reproduction? You are surprised it runs so deeply, even if it does explain the dominance of male-female pairs in their written romance, at least, and the odd reaction your Miss Claire gave you about certain references in Rose's poems.

"Good," Rose decides, with all the conviction of the beautiful little human wriggler-nymph she is. As an afterthought, she adds, "But... may I still give you your sin again?"

Ah. The subsequent line of the script.

"By the book," you half-quote in reply, all but a murmur. You lean in, and let her kiss you on the lips this time, closing your eyes for the moment to savor it.

What a strange force serendipity is, to bring you this. A sweep ago, you would have never imagined finding such a love: on an alien world, with an alien girl, so young and so precious and utterly precocious.

Something nags at you that this is likely wrong even by human standards, but you push it aside for the taste of Rose's delicate lips.

She pulls back when you hear the creak of footsteps at the door, putting her hands over her mouth, blushing ruddy and pink ( _flushed_ \-- how perfectly her face illustrates the feeling! If only all species were so conveniently color-coded) as the primary teacher returns, smelling faintly of her preferred flavor of toxic paper tubes.

"Aren't you going to go out to recess, Rose?" asks the teacher, with the resignation of a woman who knows full well the answer is "no".

Rose darts back to her desk like she has been caught stealing saccharine morsels from a jar, settling at her desk to resume her place in her latest allegedly age-appropriate book, an abridged collection of works by human Edgar Allen Poe. "No, ma'am. I'm reading."

"Any reason you were up bothering Ms. Maryam at her desk?" The human teacher in your classroom does not entirely trust you, despite your long-demonstrated patience and composure in dealing with juvenile humans. She discourages the children from pestering you as if she fully expects you to lose your temper, her impression of trollkind still struggling at times to move past the well-ingrained image of two sweeps ago, when the Empire was all but marching on their doorstep in fire and blood. You suspect she is waiting for you to snap one day, if only to prove her right.

"It was only a question," you cut in, before Rose can be questioned any further. "She's such a curious child. I hope for the day her brilliant mind will come to enlighten us all."

You may be laying it on a bit thickly, but Rose beams behind her book, eyes fixed on you over the top of the pages. She is intoxicated by your praise, and you are bolstered in turn by her delight.

The human teacher sighs. "She's a good student," she admits. "I'm glad the two of you are getting along."

"As am I," you say. "I believe Rose is my favorite student in this class."

"We don't do favoritism here, Ms. Maryam," the teacher warns you.

"I know." You smile, carefully, without teeth. "I simply enjoy her company and presence. It will be a shame to see her leave us next year."

The human teacher mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like _I can't wait_ , but you decide to follow human social norms and ignore the slight. It's not worth fighting over. You have been informed this teacher will retire in a sweep or two, anyway, and she is old and addicted to carcinogens, so you may very well see her death within your time here.

This is not something in need of meddling.

***

「 december 」

"My birthday is on Monday," Rose tells you one week, apropos of nothing.

"Your hatchday, you mean?" You finish marking an arithmetic quiz, adding little red ticks where another, less competent student has continued to struggle on basic subtraction.

"We don't hatch from eggs, Ms. Maryam," Rose corrects. "Humans give live birth." After a moment, she leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "They come out of the lady's _vagina_."

"I do not know which part that is, and I am not certain I wish to learn."

"I read it in a book." She pulls up a wriggler-sized chair to sit beside you. "Anyway, I wanted to invite you to my house for my birthday, but Mother said I can't invite adults to my party. I'm not having a party, though. I don't like any of the other children here enough to want them to come over. Most of them don't like books, anyway."

You nod along. The red pen flicks along the page. "May I ask where this is going?"

In a low voice, Rose asks, "Do you want to come to my house while Mother is drunk? I can hide you in my bedroom."

That.

That is certainly a proposition.

You sit frozen for a moment, pen stopping at the end of a jerky scarlet line across the paper. "While your lusus is 'drunk'?" you ask, at loss for any real response.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it, but some nights she drinks a lot. She doesn't do anything bad, and she still does her work for her job, I think, but she gets stupid and doesn't pay attention to anything, so I could probably hide a person in the house without her noticing." Rose seems to reflect on this statement for a few seconds. "We also live in a very, very big house, so I could probably hide you even if she was normal."

"I am unsure if this would be. Appropriate conduct, as a teacher." You tap the end of the pen against your desk, unable to still your hands from their worrying.

"So is kissing me, but I like that. You're not like the other teachers. Or like my mother."

"Still," you say. "Perhaps we should be more... careful. About this. I do not know where you live, but I do not wish to attract attention following you home, either."

Rose slumps a little in her seat, and her disappointment tugs at your emotions like threads run through your chest. "I could do it, though."

"Perhaps next time," you tell her.

"I won't have my next birthday for another year."

"I will consider it then," you decide, not entirely thinking through your words. For how exceptionally mature she is under most circumstances, it only occurs to you a moment later that Rose is still very, very young, and that an Earth year is nearly twenty percent of her current age, but by then, the damage is already done.

Rather than answer you, she stands up, scowling, kicks at the leg of the chair hard enough to jostle against the desk, and goes outdoors for recess for the first time since it started to snow.

She refuses to speak with you after the weekend. It is a childish punishment, but effective. You have never regretted a decision more. The end of it comes three and a half days later, when you apologize profusely until she finally cracks a small smile at the sight of you worrying yourself silly over the moods of this tiny human who has you wrapped around her smallest touch stub.

Later, you will wonder what could have happened, if you had said yes.

***

Winter break weeps with loneliness. Somehow, in the interim between arrival and intermission, Rose has become the guiding light of your life. She is your second sun, under the eerily gentle daylight of her planet's own, and she occupies your thoughts so frequently you don't know what to do without the promise of her presence.

Your peers on this mission were never the closest. All the friends from your wrigglerhood have found other tasks, with few exceptions (you hear Tavros has found a place learning to work with children and Earth animals, and he does well, as careful as he is, as knowing of what it is like to be reliant on others), but you spend little time with the coworkers of your own party, mostly jades and teals and the rare aberration of a rust or olive or blue. Your caste were considered among the least temperamental of your species. The logic has held so far, while the new regime experiments further.

You find yourself despondent, retreating. Your block becomes more and more your home, your entire living quarters bound by the walls of your recuperacoon. The barracks offer some degree of privacy, at least, with well-veined organic dividers guided to grow through lattice-frames between living spaces to convert a larger, multi-purpose chamber into a smaller collection of respite blocks.

In the early perigees of arrival, you transplanted several minimally invasive Alternian flora to grow from the walls, filling your space with gentle greenery, and hung bolts of bright patterned fabrics over whatever they failed to cover, so the space feels more like a home than a temporary fleshcubicle, but you long for the sight of Rose's smile and her eyes and the high, clear song of her alien voice before long.

Sunk deep into the sopor, you dream of her. Your hand creeps between your legs before you know what you are doing. It is a slow, subtle pleasure, that only enhances the idea of her, and you imagine the cold sopor against your body is warm skin, gathering a congealed section of it that has settled near the bottom and curling your limbs around in, stroking yourself as you cradle it, whispering sweet nothings and petting the soft hairs of a head it does not possess and imagining lips at yours again.

You are grateful for the sopor muffling your voice when you call out her name.

***

「 january 」

Rose delivers her thirteenth poem to you on the first day back from winter. You are glad to have earned her forgiveness, and more determined than ever to keep it.

There is a secret message hidden in it. Decoding takes only a short time, as you are fluent by now in human poetic styles, and you recognize an acrostic when you see one, even with a distinct rhyming scheme maintained. You have been called to meet her near the edges of the premises, after school hours end, but before the chauffeur sent by her lusus arrives to collect her.

Resistance gains you nothing, you decide, and cooperating offers everything. You smile and thank her during recess, when she remains in the classroom to read. The rest of the schoolday feels insignificant, impatience humming under your flesh, urgent and eager. For once, you sympathize deeply with the other wrigglers' sighs of relief as the final bell rings out the end of the hours.

You kiss Rose Lalonde for the second time hidden under a green-needled pair of trees, after you scoop her into your arms, sweeping her off her feet like a lover. Though she hasn't gotten any more practiced at it, you're willing to assist.

***

「 march 」

Your trysts continue through spring, sporadic and secretive. You've grown increasingly aware of the risks of meeting her publicly, and so has she, with her mind so far ahead of her peers. She predicts the risks at your prompting, and the two of you arrange for more secure occasions -- farther from the school, better hidden in the woods beyond it. The delay between school's end and pickup is plenty enough for a moment alone and unseen, and you join her more frequently there as the weather warms.

In the warming air, you follow birdsong and budding flowers to meet her. She has begun to wear shorter skirts again, and tall stockings, sweet and ruffled, but confesses a preference for darker hues from time to time, so you've brought her a gift: a black headband, with a lace bow, and the tiniest jade satin accents near the ends, where her hair and ears will hide them. You envision her wearing it to school the next day, and your heart flutters and twists like it wants to burst from your chest into flight.

She is already waiting for you, behind the trees, at the edge of the officially maintained trail. An insect has captured her attention, crawling along the roots of a tall coniferous tree; she only diverts her attention for a moment when you arrive.

"Ms. Kanaya, look," she whispers. "It's a butterfly."

"It is injured," you observe. The creature's lopsided gait reflects a crumpled wing, battered by unknown forces.

"It's lovely," she says.

"Not as much as you."

She giggles, and ducks away with a smile. "You don't need to flatter me, Kanaya. I already like you."

(You began asking her to call you by your first name when alone nearly a perigee ago. It sounds perfect in her mouth every time. You adore it.)

"I could say the same about your poems," you point out, a little cheekily. "Yet I do not ask you to stop."

Rose swings her arms a little, twisting in place. "That's because you like my poems."

"And do you not enjoy my compliments?" You cannot quite keep the laughter from your voice.

The two of you continue some distance down the path, winding between conifers still rich with greenery and bordered by the fresh sprouts of new plants taken root, entwined amidst older perennials reborn since the frost. A distance must be ensured, before anything untoward. When you have gained a satisfactory barrier between yourselves and the parking lot, Rose steps closer, wrapping a warm arm around your legs.

Her fingers curl around your thigh, a little lewder than she normally is, though you are unsure how much of it she is aware of. You take this as your cue to lift her in your arms, and balance her on your hip. Now, your eyes can meet evenly if only you glance down, and if not, her face can fill the vulnerable hollow of your neck. If you are especially lucky, she will kiss you there as well.

Rose has become skilled at this, at teasing you with her affection. She learns so quickly. Such a brilliant little creature.

"I have brought a gift for you today," you tell her, when she has finished exacting her fondness upon you.

Her expression sours, slightly. "A gift?"

Your bloodpusher sinks, but you press on. "You mentioned you preferred darker colors, so I purchased something for you, if you would like it."

With your free hand, you procure the small, flat box containing the headband. Your understanding of human gifting rituals suggested a wrapper of colorfully patterned paper and aesthetically pleasing ribbons to be appropriate, so you have done your best to meet these standards. Rose does not need to know how long you agonized over the color schema, or the exact curliness of the bow, so you resist the urge to tell her, but a little flourish in presentation does no harm.

"I'd like to stand, if you don't mind, Ms. Kanaya," she says. You obligingly set her down.

After glancing up at you, as if awaiting permission, she begins to unwrap the package with delicate, precise movements. She then promptly abandons all sense of propriety when the adhesive proves too stubborn for her dull claws, resorting to tearing a broad strip out of the paper and all but shredding the rest to extricate the box. You catch the scraps of paper as she discards them, a little disappointed with her lack of comment.

A pleasant surprise crosses her face once she opens it.

"If it is not to your liking, I can probably find something else," you assure her, but she is already unhooking the headband from the stiff paper backing. "I will not be so gauche as to call it a belated hatchday gift, but obviously you are welcome to see it as one, if you would like to."

"Thank you," she says. She slips the headband over her head, exchanging it for her current one, which is bright pink with tiny jewels and honestly quite unfitting -- aurum-coating the delicate bulb blossom, as it were. "You actually picked something I would like. My mother is terrible at that."

"Oh?" You have never actually met Rose's mother, in person. Though she has, on paper, agreed to attend a parent-teacher conference in the spring, your coworkers describe her as a busy woman, infamously reclusive. Rose's comments about her frequent intoxication do not improve this picture in the slightest.

"She tries to do things for me," Rose continues, "but she never really _listens_ to me. She just hears some of it, and the rest is whatever she wants it to be. Even when she does guess it right, it's always too much." She giggles, softly. "Like the opposite of you, I guess."

"What exactly does that imply of my approach? Too little, and too passively?" you tease.

She shakes her head. "No. Carefully, and just enough."

"Ah, so you rebuff my flattery, but offer your own so plentifully." You regard her fondly from above, as you often do. The dark satin suits her.

She ducks to avert her gaze, mock-shyly. "I only speak the truth, Ms. Kanaya. And I know I'm right."

"You always have been the top of your class."

"I'm six and I read books for high-schoolers, Ms. Kanaya. Of course I am."

***

「 april 」

Three months, you realize. Ninety earth days. Not even a quarter of a sweep.

You have three months before the end of the school year, and then Rose Lalonde will move on to first grade, assuming the school does not move her ahead on the basis of sheer age-inappropriate aptitude. Considering her reading habits, the latter seems more likely: you have heard the human teachers discussing whether it would be a better choice to have her skip two grades, three, or one per year repeatedly; either way, her chances of seeing first grade are low to nil.

She is aware of this, of course. She is the one who reminds you, as the deadline nears. It comes as a shock, like a physical blow, entirely unnecessarily -- you were _aware_ of this, that the schoolfeeding system would separate you soon as easily as it brought you together. In the early months, you still held concerns of reassignment, or other extremes. The mundanity of the deadline nearly pulls a laugh from your throat. What irony, that it's not scandal that will part you, but schedule.

The two of you discuss this during one of your afternoon trysts in the woods. She is considering try to convince her mother to arrange for a private schoolfeeding arrangement, although this would not be much better, as it still eliminates your prime opportunities to fraternize.

"Maybe I could get her to hire you as my tutor," she suggests, in the middle of what she has quaintly dubbed a 'brain-storming' session for ideas. "Ugh, but she probably has other _human_ tutors already lined up for me, with _qualifications_ and _connections_ and stuff. I suppose if I threw a fit maybe she would consider opening up the position to more offers, but I think she would just ignore me. She does that once she gets ideas about things." Her thoughtful face slides in and out of an adorably solemn little frown. "Hmm... but if I introduced you along with the idea of the tutoring, before she has the chance to think of anyone else..."

You interrupt her train of thought with an unfortunate detail. "Sadly, my current presence here on earth is contingent on my position at your school. I am unlikely to be able to change my assigned grade or role, but if I were to end my contract and deployment early, perhaps I could find an excuse to return as a visitor in future years, without all these obligations."

You don't enjoy the thought of it. A turnaround like that could ruin your reputation and career, and if anyone caught on as to _why_ you'd done it, you'd be a laughingstock at best. You are known best for duty and diligence; dropping your current life to pursue a juvenile alien's flushed quadrant flies in the face of that so deeply you might as well have slapped yourself with it.

She sits there for a moment, until a new idea appears to dawn on her. "Ms. Kanaya, if you asked, could they keep me in kindergarten another year?"

"Not first grade?" you ask. "Rose, the faculty is currently debating whether you are more ready for second, third, or fourth at this point. Repeating a grade is for students who fail the year's classes."

"Yes," she says, "but were I to somehow completely fail everything for the rest of the year, so badly I couldn't scrape together a passing grade at the end, could they keep me? Particularly at the recommendation of a teacher who knows me well and might support the idea of holding me back another year?"

"Your grades would suffer," you point out, a little hesitantly. Rose scoffs.

"We both know my grades don't mean anything, Ms. Kanaya. Numerically, though. Could we do it?"

You think on it for a minute, tallying up scores in your mind. Fortunately, performing several times above grade-level does not increase her score beyond the maximum, so a string of complete failures could still plausibly reduce her grade below the minimum. Unfortunately, the minimum is set very, very low. "As it stands, I believe you would have to be absent or completely noncompliant in schoolwork for the entire remainder of the year to stand a chance of failure."

Rose nods. "If I were to throw tantrums and refuse to attend or participate in school for the rest of the year, I presume that would be enough?" She says _presume_ with an odd accent, like she's imitating an adult she's heard.

"I suppose?" It seems like a very childish plan, and it feels as if something is missing, but Rose is still as often childish as she is mature, and you don't know enough about human customs to dispute her logic. "Though, surely there must be some alternative."

She shrugs and kicks her legs against the log she's been sitting on. "Probably." Her eyes brighten. "Maybe we could run away together!"

You pause to consider this suggestion, perhaps more seriously than intended. "... in the manner of the leads in human Trollita?"

"I mean, we'd have to hide you, since you're a troll, but there are other trolls on earth," she says. "Maybe I could cut my hair short and pretend to be a boy, too, or something. And we could have fake names and identity papers."

"Let's not get too far ahead," you caution her, but you're smiling.

You wonder if-- no, Sollux would ask too many inconvenient questions, most likely, and you doubt his willingness to aid you in this endeavor, although you might tentatively trust him to keep your secrets, if needed. However, the premise of simply _disappearing_ from all relevant obligations, to do with Rose as you wish, far from the reach of eavesdroppers and over-protective guardians, appeals more than you would openly admit.

***

The two of you had grown so accustomed to your habits, your stolen conversations and subtle references, that it was only a matter of time before a loose thread found its way into the hands of some unwitting observer, to unravel your tapestry and lay your secrets bare. A little error, a hand that slipped too low, a chaste kiss on the forehead like a human lusus to their child, and the eye of suspicion casts its full light upon you.

They do not know exactly what they have seen, but certain individuals have gathered that something is deeply amiss.

Most human romance, you are reminded again, ends in tragedy.

"You're very fond of her," says your human aide, now addressed by her given name of 'Joey' more often than the more formal 'Miss Claire'. "It's sweet that you've bonded with her and all that, but you should probably talk to her at some point and make sure she actually understands, you know?"

"Understands what?" You do not see the danger until it falls squarely upon you, too late.

"The whole puppy-crush thing? And that you don't like her back?"

You flinch just a tiny bit more than is appropriate. "Ah. That."

"Yeah. That." Joey frowns, releasing a slow but rising radiation of concern that accelerates your pulse like a human Geiger counter, intensifying into a horrified crescendo of realization. "Wait, have you not--?"

"Of course not!" The rebuttal comes out louder than intended. You lower your volume before continuing. "I assure you, the poems have long since ceased, and we have come to an understanding with regards to her flushed interests toward myself."

"And that understanding is...?" she prompts. Her voice tries to remain calm, but everything you know of both troll and human body language tells you she's on edge, waiting for your answer.

Praying she does not read hesitation as guilt, you say, "I have no ill intentions toward young Rose Lalonde, I assure you. I would never harm her." And then, for safety, you add, "Our interaction and fondness for one another is purely platonic."

She pauses for a moment, by all appearances satisfied with that answer. And then, a few minutes later, she asks, "Do you live separately from the other trolls in your task-squadron or whatever it is?"

You sense a trap. You don't want to. "... yes. We all occupy the same general barracks."

She nods, and you find something like grim acceptance in her eyes, belying her casual tone. "Okay. So what's with the detour through the woods out by the parking lot, then?"

"I enjoy nature," you state, stilling your hands so they do not shake, "and I find walking through the trails calming."

"So you're walking on your own, on the trails?" The trap closes in. Your mind spins with excuses you cannot construct in time.

"I. Ah." You have frozen, and must push your mouth back into motion. "Typically, yes."

"Interesting," she says. "I'm sure it must be nice."

She asks no further questions. You do not know whether to be relieved or wary, and so as time passes without action taken, a fatal mistake is made.

On a warm May afternoon, a rowdy camera shutter clicks sharply through your kiss.

***

「 august 」

In the cabin, the murmur of croakbeasts creeps through the surrounding woods like an echo, filling out the sounds of a foreign warm season you have come to love the longer it has lasted. The sun shines down upon you and Rose both, through the slats in the ceiling and the gentle open air of the porch; you bask in it alongside her, though Rose prefers to slip indoors and lounge in the shade with her books.

She's had to replace her library card, but a burner phone and a simple bit of lying and friendship-extortion has earned her the name of one Dahlia Landon, ('Dolly' to you, in public), nearly twice her age, if unusually small for it. Your own documents, different in protocol but alike in origin, proudly label you as Miriya Lorosa, jadeblood granted temporary guardianship and a visitation visa for the next two sweeps, though you're unlikely to keep this identity for quite so long.

Sollux was far more willing to help, once your life was on the line. You only wish you hadn't been so desperate. Your find solace in having omitted most of the truly incriminating details, at least, in your hasty explanation of the incident and the circumstances that led to it.

You step inside to join her under the wooden roof, leaving the door open, to fill the cabin with summer air. You won't be staying here long, only until you find somewhere better. The search of the Lalonde estate ended only two months ago, and while nobody has permanently occupied this structure in Rose's own lifetime, neither of you trust it to stay untouched for much longer.

Chances are, you will be found, someday. The odds are against you. You can only hope your Rose will not abandon you so freely.

The two of you are tied by the string of serendipity, you believe, far tighter in binding than any of Rose's books. Rose knows this too, now. You have taught her of your culture, as she has of hers. Her grip of the thin needles that replaced her pocket-knife is not so inexperienced anymore.

Your mind drifts back to that copied poem, from her October offerings. One day, you think, you will be the rust and weeds, and Rose, your guiding light, will be the stardust.

"Rose, dear?" you ask, sitting on the floor beside her. "May I ask what book you've chosen today?"

She leans in for a quick peck on the lips, which you return, though she withdraws before your amorous gestures distract her from answering. " _The End of Alice,_ " she reports.

"How are you finding it?" Your hand lingers at her cheek a moment longer.

She licks her lips. "Riveting."

***

「 may 」

You strike first.

Joey is human, weak; she crumples in your grip like a doll, but the frantic fight to survive still drives her, sloppy but hard and fast enough to catch your eye with her blunt nails, to grapple at your slender horns and ram her skull fruitlessly at your throat. She punches and kicks and rolls out of your grasp, and you nearly catch her again before Rose surprises you, with a blade in her tiny hands you have never seen before, set at the side of Joey's neck and stilling her into a statue on hands and knees in the dirt. 

Joey's eyes dart back and forth, so wide with shock that her white sclera circle her irises like a ring of bone. "R... Rose? Rose, listen to me, this isn't safe, you need to run and--"

"Kanaya?" Rose doesn't take her eyes off of the knife, which is just small enough to fit her soft, stubby fingers. She has a confident grip, but slightly imprecise, that speaks to skill far more theory than experience. "Please break the camera. I don't think anybody should find it."

Dutifully, you retrieve the camera from the ground, and snap it in half with your bare hands. You make sure Joey sees. She should understand what she has chosen to meddle with.

She makes a few strange little noises, as if unable to process what she has just seen and heard, and then screams. "Help! Fire! Someone, anyone, help, please, oh god--!" You backhand her across the mouth with a broken half of the device to silence her, and plant a solid well-heeled shoe on the center of her back, just a split second before you force her to the ground. Rose watches with eyes nearly as round as hers.

There is human-red blood on Rose's hands, now. The knife must have slipped when you struck.

"You shouldn't have come here," you say, in a hushed tone, genuinely wishing she hadn't. You don't enjoy this, but you can't think of any other way to hide the evidence. Joey thrashes, mute and screaming, and you grind your heel harder into her back until something cracks.

You let Rose deal the finishing blow. A perfect symbol, a death sealed by the hands of two lovers, set against all those who would deny them. It does not occur to you to shield her from the bloodshed, of course; for all their standards and niceties and _rules_ , the wicked smile that flickers across Rose's face speaks to a brutality her species has never lost, only chosen to disguise for the sociability's sake.

And of course, you saw far worse at her age. And you've turned out just fine.


End file.
